


To Lose Sight of You

by Suaine



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-25
Updated: 2011-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suaine/pseuds/Suaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kinkmeme fill for the following prompt: <i>Even friendmance with Fenris a little rocky for mageHawke, but Sebastian becomes Fenris' friend almost immediately. I think Hawke would get jealous, especially after "You know, when I return to Starkhaven you're welcome to come with me".</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	To Lose Sight of You

Hawke mourned the good day it had been up to that point quietly with a cup of the Hanged Man's worst watery wine. Dead slavers made for exceptional days and better evenings, drinking and laughing into the night with elated friends and bawdy stories. Tall tales told with the fervor of a life lived on the edge. And Fenris, on those days, would stand to look at him and not flinch, not turn his gaze to the ground as if he had anything still to be sorry for. Hawke had forgiven him long ago, if he needed to do any forgiving at all. He understood the simplicity of it – that Fenris did not feel the same sick yearning when he looked at Hawke, didn't feel quite like a moth drawn to a flame.

Fenris was his friend and that had to be good enough. It had to, because if Hawke were to lose that as well, he didn't know what he might do. He felt unbalanced.

Three years, longer if he were entirely honest, was a long time to love someone who could not return the feeling. Fenris had made it quite clear in those years that he sought nothing from Hawke other than the occasional lesson in letters and a cause he didn't believe in. Fenris liked to fight for him and with him, but never again spoke of that time when fighting led to something else. Hawke had been stupid about it, blinded by lust, so much so that he had only later understood that Fenris must have been willing only to the extent that he wished to give a friend what he so clearly desired. It hadn't been fine at all. Hawke thought that perhaps he had forced himself, not by brute strength but by the nature of their friendship, on someone in a moment of distress.

He'd tried to atone for years and would continue to give and give until there was nothing left to spend in his heart. Fenris deserved a happiness that Hawke seemed ill-suited for, considering how easily trouble and tragedy followed his path.

Varric extracted himself from the raucous group that Hawke had long since adopted as family and walked over to him, features distorted into an all-too-knowing frown. “You should probably not drink that.”

Hawke stared at his cup, both his hands curled protectively around it as if it were a broken bird. “No, I think you're right.” He took another large sip and felt the burn of acid all the way down. It really was the most atrocious wine ever made.

“Hawke, are you alright? You seem troubled.”

Hawke nodded, forced his smile into a semblance of honesty. He was fine. “Yeah, you know me, I'm always alright. Don't have enough brains to be all broody and dramatic.”

Varric crossed his arms, speculation churning the whirlwind of his thoughts, or so Hawke always imagined it – a tiny, powerful tornado contained behind those shrewd eyes. “This is about the elf then?”

The years had worn Hawke's defenses thin when it came to this, his heart too burdened with the absence of love, or perhaps the overflowing of it, from a certain perspective. It was a cruel thing, this most powerful of all forces. “I didn't say that.” And yet the mere mention ripped something in him open and his eyes were drawn to Fenris' familiar form, one arm holding a cup and gesturing wildly in the air, the other slung companionably across Sebastian's shoulders.

Varric, too, glanced at the scene, then sighed and sat down next to Hawke, taking his cup with less than adequate care. “I think you need something stronger for this,” Varric said, and replaced the cup with a small, metal flask. “That's Antivan Brandy, it'll set you right.”

The burn of the brandy was much less scathing as it slid silkily down his throat. Hawke closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if he could just keep on drinking until he found sweet oblivion. “I'm a terrible friend.” The words had come unbidden and without his consent.

Varric chuckled and emptied the wine with a grimace. “Is this a pity party then, because I haven't got a dress or anything to wear with it.”

“I want to kill him,” Hawke confessed, feeling the black, boiling truth of it like a pustular wound.

“Who, Fenris?” For a moment, Varric sounded genuinely shocked.

Hawke shook his head and nodded toward the group. “No, not Fenris. I'd like to kill a man of the chantry, cut off his fingers and set his hair on fire.”

“I thought you liked tall, ginger and conflicted. You are usually a lot more straightforward about these things.”

The last time he'd killed a man he liked and respected, the city had made him Champion. It wasn't solely Hawke's fault that he was a little confused about a bit of friendly murder. “I do like him, he's great company and an intelligent conversationalist. He's passionate about his causes and tries hard to be a good man.”

Varric shook his head. “I fail to see how that makes him your nemesis.”

For a near endless moment Hawke held his breath and watched as Sebastian ruffled Fenris' hair. The sight sent a sharp flash of anger through him. He had so very carefully maintained his distance for thirty-four months that it seemed a personal affront. “He's a prince ready to take back his city if the need arises, a strong man with strong convictions.”

“And don't forget, he's not a mage.”

Hawke shivered, suddenly the air had gone very cold around them, most likely Hawke's magic impressing his misery upon the world. Perfect, he had so little control that a mere drinking binge could make it snow indoors. It's really no wonder...

“Varric, I don't know what to do. The two of them are nearly perfect together, fast friends, compatible ideals, who am I to stand in the way of that? Who am I to still want so much after all this time? I have to be damaged or broken or something.”

Putting a hand on his shoulder for balance, Varric got up and stretched. “You are clearly a genius of observation and deduction. Choir boy's vow of chastity is only waiting for the right person to break it down and he's fond enough of the elf, isn't he? I can see it now, the two of them, exploring and laughing as they find completion in each other.”

Hawke groaned, throwing his head back against the wall with a painful crack. “Must you be so cruel?”

Varric laughed. “Must you be so dense?”

“What do you mean?” Hawke certainly felt dense and clumsy at that moment, fuzzy from alcohol and minor head trauma.

“What you have failed to consider is that as much as Sebastian appears willing to take on Fenris as his personal guard dog, the elf has a mind of his own. If his adoration of you were any more obvious, he'd be falling to his knees to pray to an image of your face, and I don't mean the kind of praying you do with your right hand. Actually, that too, most likely, but that's not what I mean.”

Hawke swallowed something like hope and figured it could not possibly upset his stomach worse than the drink. “What do you mean, exactly?”

“Andraste's tits, Hawke, the elf is as besotted with you as you are with him. The two of you are the most ridiculous pair of lovesick girls I have ever seen, and I write romance novels so you should know that I see a fair number of them.”

Hawke shook his head, unwilling to concede what could well destroy him utterly. The feelings he had for Fenris were overwhelming and bordering on the kind of obsession Quentin had talked about over the corpse of Hawke's mother. He could not let himself be that man. Ever. “I have no right-”

The laughter from their table interrupted Hawke's lament and as he looked up, Fenris appeared to have spotted them, a questioning expression on his face. Hawke shook his head lightly and tried to smile, but Fenris would have none of it. He extricated himself from the rest of the group and came toward them. Varric excused himself with a grin and then the two of them were alone. Fenris swayed a little on his feet. Hawke wished nothing more than to reach out and steady him, but he didn't dare, unsure if it was allowed.

“I heard you talk to Sebastian earlier.”

Fenris shrugged, leaning against the wall next to Hawke, body angled in Hawke's direction. “Sebastian talks a lot. He is convinced he can win me for the chantry, or perhaps his army.”

Hawke closed his eyes. “And can he?” His voice sounded like broken glass.

“I... I don't wish to leave,” Fenris said, hesitating a few times to find the right words. “But I am not yet certain if I have a reason to stay.” Hawke closed his eyes against a sudden welling-up of tears. “Or that I have the right to ask.”

Hawke breathed. Somehow his fingers found Fenris' hand and he could do nothing but hold on. “You have every right, you may go if you wish, or stay.”

Fenris did not withdraw his hand, but his tone had turned to ice. “I do not need your permission.”

Hawke felt sick at the implication that after all this time, Fenris could still expect him to be the kind of man that Danarius was. “I wasn't, Fenris, you know I would never-”

“I know that.” Fenris growled. “It's just me. You should not wait for something that may never come. I don't know if I can be what you want me to be.”

Hawke laughed because he felt like crying. “I want you to be happy.”

Fenris turned his head, so Hawke could barely hear him when he said, “I don't know how.”

Words failed Hawke, who always had something to say no matter the situation, and for once there wasn't even a joke to be made. They sat like that for a while, fingers intertwined almost like an afterthought, and watched everyone else enjoy the party.


End file.
